“He still won’t answer the door, Momma,” I said when I walked back into the kitchen. My mother was sitting at the table, a stack of bills and her checkbook spread out before her. A pained expression hung on her face, even as she tried to smile at me. Her blond hair was twisted up in a messy bun and the few lines around her eyes seemed to have deepened over the past five days.
“I’m sorry, baby. You know there’s nothing I can do. He’ll come out when he’s ready.”
“He’s not eating.” I set the tray with the soup and crackers I’d brought him down on the counter. The soup had gone cold; a thin skin of fat sat on its surface. I went over to sit by her.
“I know.”
We sat in silence for a moment or two, the only noise the shuffling of the paper in her hands and her almost inaudible sighs.
“It’s cold outside, too,” I said, piping up. “He might freeze to death.”
“Eden!” my mother snapped. “I know! I can’t make him feel better. It’s his choice to hole up like an animal. I can’t make him stop. Believe me, I’ve tried.” I knew this was true. I knew my mother had taken him to countless doctors. They’d also been to five different therapists in the last two years, trying to find one whom my father might respect enough to take their advice. “Quacks,” my father told me. “The lot of ’em.” My mother had tried sweet, gentle conversations and she had screamed at him. She locked him out of the house, refusing to let him back in until he had taken his pills. Nothing she did seemed to work.
I scuffed the toe of my tennis shoe against the floor, making it squeak against the wood. “But you’re his wife,” I said. “If you don’t help him, who will?”
She sighed and dropped her pen to the table. “It’s Saturday, sweetie. Why don’t you go find someone to play with? It might help get your mind off him.”
“I don’t want to get my mind off him,” I said. “I want to help him get better.”
“Eden—” my mother began, but I cut her off.
“You don’t love him,” I said accusatorily. I kept my eyes down, staring at the bright red ink on an official-looking envelope that read final notice. I knew what that meant. I knew we didn’t have enough money to pay our bills again. My dad needed to get up so he could sell one of his paintings. He’d finished a bunch of them the last time he locked himself in the garage; he’d sell one and everything would be okay. He’d be happy and so would Mom. That’s how it worked. But first, she had to get him out of the garage.
“Of course I love him,” said my mom. “Don’t be silly. But love isn’t all a relationship needs. Marriages are supposed to be a partnership. Each person doing their share. Supporting each other.” She gave me another tired half smile. “Your father and I used to have that, you know. When you were first born. We were always laughing, always hugging. Even though we never had a lot of money, he did so much to make sure all my needs were met.” She paused again. “I wasn’t always like this, sweetie. I used to be such a happy person . . .” Her voice trailed off and a blank, faraway look appeared in her eyes. It scared me.
“Are you going to divorce him?” I asked as a lump the size of a golf ball rose in my throat. I knew lots of kids whose parents were divorced. My friend Tara White had a key she wore on a silver chain around her neck so she could let herself into her house after school. She only saw her father on the weekends, and I couldn’t go over to play unless her mother was home with her, which wasn’t very often. She told me she watched television all afternoon until her mom came home. She said being alone was scary and she missed her father every day. I couldn’t stand the idea of living without my dad. I didn’t understand why my mom wasn’t doing everything in her power to help him get better. He was her husband—it was her job.
“I don’t know if we’ll get divorced,” my mom said. I looked up at her with wide eyes. “I don’t want to,” she said, continuing, “but I just don’t know what I can do anymore. He’s not getting better.”
“So what?” I said, challenging her. “Would you leave him if he had cancer and wasn’t getting better? If they cut off his legs and he couldn’t walk?”
“That’s not the same thing. Your dad has a choice. A person with cancer or no legs doesn’t.” She sighed. “Now, can you please go find someone to play with? Maybe Tina is home.”
I slumped back in my seat. Tina Carpenter lived down the street from us, but her mom wouldn’t let her play with me anymore. Not since my dad let us hang our heads out the windows of the car to see what dogs thought the big fuss was about. Mrs. Carpenter saw as my dad drove us up and down the street, our hair blowing back in the wind. Or maybe she heard us, since my dad had encouraged us to howl and bark at an invisible moon. Anyway, Tina told me the next day at school that she wasn’t allowed to come over to our house again. “My mom thinks your dad is kind of weird,” she said. “Sorry.”
Now I shoved back my chair and stood up. “You’re going to make him leave,” I announced to my mother. “I hate you!”
My mother’s blue eyes flashed and she threw her pen down to the table. “You hate me? Me? I’m the one putting food in your mouth. I keep this roof over your head. Do you think for one minute your dad would take care of you the way I do if I decided to lock myself away for days at a time? No! You’d be on your own, little girl.”
“No, I wouldn’t!” I said, trying to fight back tears. “He loves me. He’d take care of me just fine. We don’t need you. Maybe you’re the reason he stays out there. Did you ever think of that? Why don’t you just go away and leave us alone?”
“Because I can’t!” The flash left my mother’s eyes just as quickly as it had appeared. Her shoulders fell.
My eyes stung as though she had hit me across the face.
“Honey,” she said, seeing my tears. She tried to grab my hand. I took a few steps back, out of her reach, and ran up the stairs to my room.
She probably wishes I was never born, I thought after I threw myself facedown on my bed. She said it herself; she didn’t stay because she loved me or my dad. She only stayed because she had to. Time would only tell if she would leave me too.
